THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Olur 


Copyright  IQOJ  by 
Alfred  G.  Langivortby 


A 

CASTLE  KNIGHT  AND 
TROUBADOUR 

In  an  Apology  and  Three  Tab 
leaux 


The  Apology 

I  then  saw,"  says  Gerard  de  Nerval, 
speaking  of  a  certain  besettment  of 
ideas  of  his  own,  "vaguely  drifting 
into  form,  plastic  images  of  antiquity 
which  outlined  themselves,  became  defi 
nite,  and  seemed  to  represent  symbols  of 
which  I  seized  the  idea  with  difficulty 
only."  I  make  his  words  my  own,  for  I 
also  have  been  haunted  by  the  symbols  of 
things,  which  have  shaped  themselves 
and  materialized  into  living  forms,  as  I 
read  of  that  resurgent  time  which  awoke 
Italy  from  the  grief  of  Rome's  decay, 
brought  joy  to  childlike  France,  moved 
rude  Germany  to  thought  and  song,  and 
stirred  in  barbarous  England  the  germ  of 
art. 

I  should  have  been  pleased  had  these 
curious,  grave,  gay,  comic,  false,  aspir 
ing,  essentially  youthful  creatures  of  my 

'3 


fancy's  acquaintance  consented  to  dwell 
in  Italy,  for  that  seemeth  a  fair  country, 
and  it  is,  moreover,  the  one  that  taught 
men  how  to  think  after  their  long  for 
getting.  But  my  creatures  are  chivalrous, 
and  Italy  was  not  the  home  of  chivalry. 
They  are  sincere  and  credulous,  and  Italy 
was  wise  with  an  ancient  wisdom  and 
scoffed.  I  was  therefore  constrained, 
whether  I  would  or  not,  to  leave  a  place 
so  intellectual,  so  discriminating,  so  well 
adapted  to  enduring  achievement,  and 
walk  with  my  insouciant  folk  to  the  very 
careless  land  of  Provence.  There  are  or 
chards  blooming,  —  "the  gentle  country 
all  abloom  with  fresh  grass" —  and  the 
brooding  day  solicits  lovers,  finders  of 
song,  amorous  and  aspiring  women,  men 
whose  pride  it  is  to  die  for  the  sepulchre, 
and  all  other  foolish  persons. 

Nor  will  you  forget,  if  you  please,  that 
I  am  not  to  touch  upon  the  greater  ques 
tions  of  this  pregnant  time.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  comment  on  the  nature  of  the  seed 

H 


that,  germinating  in  the  rich  loam  of  the 
ages,  came  slowly  to  its  spacious  growth, 
till  the  branches  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 
hung  over  all  the  Christian  lands.  Nor 
shall  I  speak  of  the  rumor  that  this  seed 
was  dropped  from  pagan  hands ;  nor  yet 
discuss,  whether,  being  grown,  it  proved 
a  upas  for  Christianity.  Nor  am  I  to  con 
cern  myself  with  the  men  of  great  and  re 
volutionary  ideas — with  Petrarch,  Dante, 
Boccaccio,  Galileo,  Lorenzo  di  Medici, 
Lionardo,  Botticelli,  Michael  Angelo, 
Cceur  de  Leon,  Villon,  Francis  of  Assisi, 
St.  Catherine,  Margaret  of  Navarre, 
Bruno  the  philosopher,  or  that  extrava 
gant  being,  Bernini,  who  served  as  the 
drop  curtain  for  the  Renaissance.  I  do  not 
write  of  the  lucid  and  formulated  time  — 
that  remains  for  others.  My  tale  is  of  an 
incoherent,  joyful  day,  a  morn  of  dew,  in 
which  the  world,  a-wandering  by  plea 
sant  paths,  discovered  song.  Yet  have  no 
fears  that  the  theme  will  cloy  you  with  its 
sweetness,  for  if  you  listen  you  shall  hear 


a  minor  and  fateful  note  —  an  under-har- 
mony,  presageful  and  of  power.  It  is  the 
Sorrow  of  Woman,  making  itself  audible, 
swelling  above  the  folly  of  the  time,  forc 
ing  men  eventually  to  strife  for  liberty  of 
thought.  But  this  in  a  later  hour  than  that 
of  which  I  write.  Now,  behold,  Dante 
has  not  yet  taught  the  dignity  of  dialects, 
nor  Aldus  fashioned  his  presses.  Care 
lessly,  with  toying  hands,  the  learning  of 
the  Arabs  has  been  gathered  up,  it  is  true, 
but  as  children  gather  pearls  in  the  river 
bed,  unheeding  their  value.  And  of  all  the 
curious,  gay  kaleidoscopic  world,  upon 
three  fantastic  pieces  we  must  focus  our 
eyes  —  the  Castle,  the  Knight,  and  the 
Troubadour. 


16 


TABLEAU  I. 
'The  Troubadour. 

THE  ante-rooms  of  the  great  hall 
at  Ventadorn  were  chill  and 
dusky.  Through  little  windows 
the  light  came  in  meagrely,  falling  with 
caution  on  the  ill-kept  floors.  The  walls 
were  grey  and  bare,  save  for  a  Damascan 
scabbard  here  or  a  wrought  cutlass  there, 
or,  in  a  niche,  a  distorted  figure  of  the 
Crucified,  carved  in  black  wood.  Bones 
that  had  been  flung  from  the  table  or  left 
by  the  dogs,  a  dead  rat,  the  stones  and 
peelings  of  fruit,  lay  about  under  foot, 
annoying  no  one. 

In  one  of  these  rooms,  where  there  was 
no  provision  for  fire,  where  the  perfume 
of  blossoming  orchards  came  in  miserly 
puffs  of  sweetness  and  the  sunlight  spread 
itself  fan-like  through  the  bars  at  the  win 
dow,  sat  four  men  about  a  table.  They 
were  drinking  from  cups  of  polished  buf- 


falo  horn  and  talking  with  unctuous  good 
fellowship. 

One  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  grave  of 
port,  with  a  hint  of  the  warrior  in  his  bear 
ing  ;  as  indeed  he  had  a  right  to  have,  for 
it  was  not  a  month  since  William  of  Poi 
tiers  had  returned  from  the  conquest  of 
Jerusalem,  whither  he  had  gone  with 
Raymond  of  Toulouse.  The  other  men 
were  as  gay  as  grasshoppers  in  July. 

"By  His  Wounds,  Bernard,"  cried  one, 
"but  I  swore  I  should  pay  a  pilgrimage  to 
thy  shrine  if  I  never  took  another  journey 
in  my  life.  I  had,  if  you  will  believe  me, 
encouragement  from  our  lady.  She  vowed 
thatif  she  had  a  finder  in  her  hall  like  thee, 
she  could  with  more  grace  assert  Nor 
mandy  to  be  the  regnant  Court  of  Love. 
Any  day,  if  thou  art  near  her  tower,  thou 
mayest  hear  her  singing  by  herself.  And 
what  ?  Not  the  famous  songs  of  our  great 
master,"  he  bowed  to  William  of  Poitiers; 
"not  the  viralais  of  these  errant  beggars," 
and  he  saluted  half  mockingly  his  other 
18 


companions,  "  but  thy  songs,  Bernard  — 
thine  ! " 

"Thou  speakest  of  Eleanor,  the  Duch 
ess  of  Normandy?"  inquired  William 
with  respect. 

"Of  the  peerless  Lady  of  that  jocund 
Court  of  Love,"  cried  the  first  speaker, 
Peter  of  Auvergne.  "Eleanor,  whose 
white  beauty  —  " 

But  Bernard  of  Ventadorn  interrupted 
him: 

"And  which  of  my  songs  doth  she 
sing  ?' '  he  asked.  His  red-brown  eyes  had 
little  points  of  flame  in  them.  He  leaned 
forward,  breathing  quickly,  showing  his 
white  teeth,  blushing  with  delighted 
vanity. 

Peter  smiled  at  him  tantalizingly  and 
did  not  at  once  answer. 

"Come,  come,"  pleaded  Bernard. 
"Tell  me,  Peter  !  I  have  not  deserved  so 
much,  my  friends,  but  if  joy  beyond  des 
erts  comes  to  one  —  " 

"Cease  thy  clamor,  "laughed  Peter.  "I 

'9 


will,  being  a  good-natured  fool  and  free  of 
envy,  sing  to  theethat  song  of  thine  which 
she  doth  most  affect." 

He  lifted  his  German  lyre  from  the 
table,  made  an  absurd  feint  of  ladylike  airs 
and  sang  in  an  exquisitely  sweet  but  mock 
ing  falsetto  this  song : 

"Behold,  the  meads  are  green  again, 
The  orchard  bloom  is  seen  again, 
Of  sky  and  stream  the  mien  again 

Is  mild,  is  bright; 
Now  should  each  heart  that  loves  obtain 

Its  own  delight. 

"But  I  will  say  no  ill  of  love, 
However  slight  my  guerdon  prove  ; 
Repining  doth  not  me  behoove ; 

And  yet  —  to  know 
How  lightly  she  I  fain  would  move, 
Might  bliss  bestow  ! 

"There  are  those  hold  my  fancy  great, 
Because  with  little  hope  I  wait; 
But  one  old  saw  doth  animate 

And  me  assure : 
Their  hearts  are  high,  their  might  is  great, 

Who  well  endure." 

William  of  Poitiers  listened  with  the 
air  of  a  critic,  his  strong,  passionate,  face 
20 


wearing  a  certain  reserve ;  the  maker  of 
the  poem,  who  now  heard  for  the  first 
time  his  own  verses  sung  by  a  Troubadour 
of  his  own  quality,  was  as  flushed  and  joy 
ful  as  a  girl  who  hears  the  first  love  vow 
whispered  in  her  ear.  The  third  man, 
who  had  a  dark  and  sensitive  face  — 
Raoul  de  Coucy,  a  bastard  of  noble  birth, 
and  a  singer  in  Fate's  despite — broke  into 
impetuous  applause. 

"It  is  a  pretty  enough  song,"  said  Wil 
liam,  stroking  his  beard  and  speaking 
rather  caustically,  "and  I  doubt  not  the 
white  lady  Eleanor  can  make  it  languish 
ing  as  moonlight  on  the  sea,  but  beggar 
me  if  '  twas  writ  for  her!  Eh,  Bernard, 
confess  thyself!  These  cries  of  longing 
were  for  one  as  fair,  and  much  less  pro 
digal  of  her  rewards  ? " 

Bernard,  the  baker's  son,  chief  of  the 
singers  to  Elbe  III,  Viscount  of  Venta- 
dorn,  lifted  his  horn  filled  and  overflow 
ing. 

"  It  was  writ  for  Adelaide  of  Venta- 
21 


dorn  !  "  he  shouted.  And  all  his  guests, 
arising,  drank,  while  Bernard  continued 
his  eulogy:  "Adelaide  of  Ventadorn,  who 
I  say  hath  the  whitest  hands,  the  most 
star-like  eyes,  the  stateliest  grace  of  any 
lady  —  I  care  not  how  born  and  I  care  not 
how  loved  —  in  all  the  land. "  And  he 
launched  into  more  intimate  praise,  till 
the  men  laughed  deep  in  their  throats  and 
turned  hot,  avid  eyes  on  each  other.  Wil 
liam  of  Poitiers,  the  king  of  evil  jesters, 
spoke  out  with  scurrilous  wit.  Peter  of 
Auvergnechuckledendlessly,and  clapped 
his  fellow-singers  on  the  backs.  Only 
Raoul,  the  Bastard,  having  flushed  with 
passion,  flushed  deeper  with  shame.  He 
laid  his  hand  heavily  upon  his  breast  and 
seemed  to  press  something  cruel  into  the 
flesh.  The  lust  died  out  of  his  eyes,  and  the 
receding  blood  left  him  ghost-pale,  with 
trembling  lips. 

Outside  the  air  was  balm,  but  between 
the  heavy  walls  the  chill  of  winter  still 
lingered,  and  Raoul  drew  about  his  sen- 
22 


sitive  body  a  cloak  of  yellow,  weather- 
stained  and  fringed  at  the  edges  with 
much  wear. 

"What  a  monk  thou  art,  Raoul, " 
sneered  Peter  of  Auvergne.  "Hast  thou 
no  laughter  in  thee  ?  By  His  Body,  man, 
who  art  thou  to  turn  away  from  a  good 
full-bellied  jest !  Art  thou  so  nice  ?  It 
eases  me  to  let  out  a  little  against  these 
aristocrats !  Why,  man,  we  eat  their  crusts; 
we  sleep  in  their  dark  corners,  we  come 
when  they  invite  us  and  roam  forth  when 
they  frown.  We  know  what  it  is  to  draw 
up  our  belts  for  the  ache  of  hunger,  and 
also  we  know  how  it  is  to  be  stuffed  as  full 
as  roasted  geese.  We  who  may  not  be 
lords,  who  can  not  remain  peasants,  who 
no  matter  what  our  wit  or  our  learning 
must  lick  other  men's  shoes,  may  we  not 
scoff  a  little  ?  We  may  not  consort  on 
equal  terms  with  women  of  like  intellect 
with  our  own,  and  if  we  kiss,  it  must  be 
in  the  shadow  of  the  hawthorne  betwixt 
twilight  and  dawn,  and  like  as  not,  a  poig- 

23 


nard  for  our  pains.  Ah,  we  plume  our 
selves,  do  we!  Call  ourselves  finders, 
Troubadours,  favorites  !  We  are  dogs, 
man  —  sorry  dogs,  picking  up  bones  from 
the  tables  of  the  witless ;  shivering  while 
they  sit  before  the  fire !  If  we  have  a  talent 
for  scoffing,  by  the  Sephulchre,  let  us 
scoff!" 

And  he  sang  with  insolent  intonation 
a  catch  of  William  of  Poitiers. 

Raoul  wore  embroidered  on  his  tat 
tered  sleeve  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  house 
Coucy,  though  with  the  bar  sinister,  and 
it  was  now  with  the  tolerant  and  arrogant 
contempt  of  the  Counts  of  Coucy  that  he 
regarded  the  Troubadour. 

"I  find  good  among  nobles  as  well  as 
Troubadours,  my  impassioned  Peter," 
Raoul  said  with  a  certain  condescension. 
"As  for  my  vocation,  it  is  of  my  choosing, 
and  I  let  others  belittle  it  —  I  do  it  not 
myself,  by  the  Mother  of  God  !  In  kisses 
I  do  not  indulge,  my  friend.  I  sing  hon 
orably  to  virtuous  ladies." 
24 


His  friends  broke  into  a  guffaw  —  and 
under  the  tattered  cloak,  de  Coucy's  hand 
flew  to  his  sword. 

"Messieurs!"  he  cried.  There  was 
battle  in  his  eyes.  William  of  Poitiers 
sniffed  contemptuously.  But  the  others, 
for  all  their  bravado,  felt  the  spirit  of  the 
unchallenged  autocracy  of  the  dominant 
class  in  this  attitude,  this  ejaculation,  this 
indefinable  hauteur  of  the  high-bred,  mys 
tical,  moody  face.  Peter  muttered  some 
thing  placating,  and  Bernard,  as  host, 
changed  the  conversation  to  pleasanter 
themes.  He  stood  up  straight  and  slim 
before  his  guests  and  waved  them  to  their 
seats. 

"Be  comforted,  good  friends,"  he  said. 
"Great  honor  have  you  done  me,  journey 
ing  for  days  to  the  castle  of  this  my  Lord, 
to  listen  to  the  singing  of  his  minstrel. 
Now,  before  we  are  called  to  the  Plais- 
ance,  where  as  is  the  custom,  my  Lady 
Adelaide,  mistress  of  my  soul,  Countess 
of  my  Lord,  Queen  of  our  Court  of  Love, 

25 


doth  welcome  all  comers  and  discuss  the 
'gai  sience,'  let  me  speak.  You  have  come 
from  other  courts,  to  listen  to  the  song- 
maker  of  Ventadorn.  Very  well,  I  shall 
sing  my  best  for  you.  I  shall  extend  to 
you,  as  my  Lord  permits  me,  the  hospi 
tality  of  our  house.  I  shall  present  you  to 
my  mistress,  and  she  shall  commend  your 
songs,  and  I  say,  and  will  maintain  it,  that 
she  hath  as  goodly  a  taste  in  lais,  verilais, 
rondels,  ballades,  gestes  and  Arabian 
rimes,  quadruple  and  sextuple  as  any  lady 
in  all  the  land.  Moreover  I  maintain  that 
of  all  Lords  there  be  none  more  kind  than 
the  Viscount  of  Ventadorn.  And  behold, 
I  have  not  been  a  beggar  in  my  time,  nor 
hath  any  true  poet  been  turned  from  these 
doors  forth  into  the  hedges.  I  was  born 
in  the  bakehouse  back  yonder.  I  was  — 
nay,  I  remain  with  all  fidelity,  —  the  son 
of  a  baker,  a  man  of  no  estate  and  no  con 
sideration,  but  one  who  loves  song  and 
laughter.  The  little  scullions  played  with 
me  in  my  babyhood,  and  when  I  grew  to 
26 


stripling's  size  I  cleaned  the  pots,  or  fed 
the  dogs,  and  only  at  night  when  none 
were  by  to  watch  dared  I  creep  out  of  the 
kitchen  close  and  wander  to  the  Plaisance 
to  lie  among  the  flowers  or  listen  to  the 
calling  of  night  birds.  Then  behold  one 
day,  as  it  were  an  apple  falling  from  a  tree, 
a  song  fell  into  my  lap.  I  cannot  tell  why 
'  twas,  for  I  had  no  notion  that  I  could 
sing.  With  wonderment  I  found  my 
throat  giving  forth  songs.  All  my  words 
came  in  measures,  riming,  fit  for  music 
—  such  songs  as  no  other  finder  yet  had 
sung  !  " 

The  rival  Troubadours  made  no  com 
ment.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  finders  to 
celebrate  their  prowess  in  song,  even  as 
the  Crusaders  told  of  their  exploits  and 
their  victories. 

Bernard  resumed :  "  I  nursed  the  secret 
in  my  heart  and  I  made  many  songs  and 
bided  my  time.  And  it  came.  For  the  Vis 
count  brought  home  young  Adelaide  of 
Montpelier,  his  second  bride,  a  lily  with 
.27 


a  heart  of  gold,  making  joy  yet  feeling 
none,  with  tears  like  pearls,  with  prayers 
like  incense,  with  a  knowledge  of  things 
unknown  to  grosser  souls,  a  creature  al 
ready  clad  for  presentation  to  the  Lord  of 
pure  spirits.  And  the  day  she  came  forth 
in  her  bridal  robes  to  welcome  all  who 
pay  tribute  unto  the  demesnes  of  Venta- 
dorn  and  to  receive  the  lords  whose  lands 
lie  'junct  to  ours,  I  crept  in  from  the  kit 
chen.  The  hall  was  all  alight  and  won 
derful.  I  saw  the  jewels  flashing  on  the 
sword  hilts  of  the  nobles  and  on  their 
necks.  I  saw  the  women  glowing  like  the 
sunset,  and  in  their  midst,  Adelaide  like  a 
pure  white  cloud.  I  beheld  her  beauty  as 
it  were  a  vision  above  the  Sephulchre  in 
the  sacred  city.  I  went  forward  in  the 
press,  all  in  my  homespun,  with  my 
clipped  hair  and  my  baker's  cap  in  my 
hand  and  knelt.  I  had  no  instrument ;  I 
hardly  had  a  name.  I  knelt  and  waited. 
'There  is  a  youth  kneeling  to  thee,  my 
lord,'  I  heard  my  lady  say.  So,  dimly,  in 
28 


the  confusion  of  my  senses,  I  not  know 
ing  what  might  come  next,  some  one 
lifted  me,  and  I  heard  the  Viscount  bid 
ding  me  state  my  case.  Then  I  saw  no  one 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  splendor  about 
me,  as  if  lightning  had  filled  the  hall  and 
had  staid  there,  quivering,  and  I  stood 
forth  and  lifted  both  my  arms  and  cried  : 
*  Behold,  me  Lord,  I  am  a  finder!  I  can 
sing  songs.  I  pray  you,  for  the  glory  of 
this  house,  let  me  sing  ! '  And,  since  it  is 
a  tradition  never  to  silence  the  voice  of 
a  singer  beneath  this  roof,  the  Viscount 
gave  permission  and  I  sang.  But  curiously 
enough  the  song  I  meant  to  sing  was  gone 
from  me,  and  I  thought  for  a  moment  I 
was  lost.  Then  gazing  in  the  soft  eyes  of 
our  Lady  Dove,  a  new  song  came — a  dar 
ing  song.  I  looked  at  the  grey  beard  of 
her  husband  —  verily,  she  had  not  met 
him  till  the  wedding  day  —  and  I  met 
her  shining-patient  eyes,  her  golden  hair, 
nay,  nay,  her  thrice  golden  youth,  and  I 
sang  —  I  know  not  what  —  for  though 
29 


the  rhymes  came  rushing  from  me  like 
water  from  the  gargoyles  at  the  door,  I 
forgot  them,  once  they  were  done." 

The  Troubadours  groaned  in  sym 
pathy.  Lost  honor  would  have  disturbed 
them  little.  A  man  dead,  a  maid  disgraced 
—  well,  these  were  incidents.  A  man  and 
a  maid  should  have  care  for  life  and  maid 
enheads.  But  a  lost  song !  It  moved  them 
to  pity. 

"So,"  resumed  Bernard,  "I  became  the 
singer  of  Ventadorn,  and  I  make  songs  to 
Beauty,  to  Spring,  to  Night ! 

The  perfumes  of  April  floated  in  the 
window,  bringing  with  it  a  sound  of 
women's  laughter. 

"Go,  my  little  children,  and  curl  your 
locks,"  cried  Bernard,  lifting  his  finger 
for  them  to  note  the  laughter.  "Our 
Court  gathers.  Hasten  —  the  ladies  will 
be  waiting.  As  for  thee,  Raoul,  if  thou 
art  inclined,  thou  shalt  wear  my  new 
coat." 

"I  give  thee  thanks,"  said  Raoul  gent- 

3° 


ly;  "but  my  coat  and  I  go  together  now 
even  as  we  have  for  several  years,  in  storm 
and  in  shine,  at  buryings  and  fetes." 

"Presently  they  were  pacing  down  the 
sunlit  length  of  the  Plaisance,  where 
under  a  fringed  canopy  of  Damascan  silk 
sat  a  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
very  gayly  faired.  Servants  went  in  and 
out  among  the  company  bearing  fruits 
and  drinks,  flowers  wreathed  the  chairs 
in  which  the  ladies  sat,  and  in  the  blos 
soming  trees  about  them  sang  the  mating 
birds. 

Little  cries  of  delight  broke  from  the 
ladies  as  the  Troubadours  approached. 
They  fluttered  their  diaphanous  scarfs, 
flung  flowers  at  the  minstrels,  and  were 
apparently  enchanted  at  everything  — 
the  soldier-like  bearing  of  William  of 
Poitiers,  the  nonchalance  of  Peter  of  A  u- 
vergne  and  of  Bernard  of  Ventadorn,  and 
the  haughty  bearing  of  the  ragged  Raoul 
de  Coucy.  Bernard  presented  the  guests 
to  his  lord  and  lady  —  not  that  William 

31 


required  an  introduction,  for  there  were 
at  this  time  few  courts  before  which  he 
had  not  appeared. 

"My  lady,"  cried  Desiree  Autafort,one 
of  the  youngest  and  most  beautiful  of 
the  company,  "I  have  a  subject,  an  it 
please  thee,  fit  for  debate  this  propitious 
day  which  brings  so  many  gallant  singers 
to  our  court."  She  smiled  upon  the  com 
pany  with  conscious  coquetry. 

"Pray  thee,  speak,"  smiled  Adelaide 
in  her  slow  way,  flinging  a  white  rose  at 
the  girl.  Desiree  caught  it  and  held  it  in 
her  long  delicate  fingers  —  fingers  laden 
with  the  pale  blue  turquoises  of  the  Ara 
bians  —  and  announced  with  much  sol 
emnity  the  subject  she  had  to  propose. 

"Which,"  she  said,  "are  the  greater  — 
the  benefits  or  the  ills  of  love  ? " 

There  was  applause.  Knights,  ladies, 
greybeards,  striplings,  the  waiting  Trou 
badours,  received  the  suggestion  with 
profound  resped:.  It  was  evident  that  here 
was  theme  for  discourse. 

32 


"Who  else  deviseth  for  us  a  theme  ?" 
asked  Adelaide  courteously.  Blanche- 
fleur  Vaquerias,  the  Spaniard,  luscious  and 
half-sullen,  looked  up  from  beneath  meet 
ing  brows,  and  caught  the  eye  of  the  lady. 

"Speak,  my  little  one,"  said  Adelaide 
kindly. 

"I  have  bethought  me  of  a  subject  more 
intricate,"  acknowledged  Blanchefleur, 
when  she  had  saluted  as  maiden  should  a 
matron.  "Listen,  of  thy  courtesy."  She 
lifted  the  tasselled  wand  she  held  in  her 
hand  —  a  pretty  folly,  hanging  with 
silver  rings  and  little  tinkling  bells:  — 
"Which  loveth  the  more  deeply,  one  who 
can  not  keep  from  speaking  to  every  one 
of  his  lady,  or  one  who  doth  not  speak  of 
her  at  all  yet  thinketh  of  her  night  and 
day?" 

The  cries  of  approval  were  more  pro 
nounced. 

"A  diverting  question,"  muttered  the 
Viscount  in  his  grey  beard. 

"  Most  suitable  to  the  day,"  William 

33 


of  Poitiers  said  to  his  fellow-singers. 

"It  is  my  choice,"  announced  Adelaide 
in  her  resonant  and  calm  voice.  "And 
thou,  Bernard,  since  day  and  night  thou 
singest  my  praises,  shalt  do  well  to  defend 
him,  who,  loving,  speaketh  his  love.  And 
thou  Raoul  de  Coucy,  who  art  pale  and 
of  a  melancholy  cast,  as  if  thou  knewest 
over  well  the  silences  and  sorrows  of  love, 
shalt  defend  him  who,  in  lonely  places,  in 
ruins  and  beside  dark  seas,  and  in  leafless 
forests,  and  in  night  and  rain,  walketh 
thinking  of  his  love  and,  warmed  and  fed 
by  thought  of  her,  feeling  speech  a  super 
fluity.  Thou,  Peter  of  Auvergne,  shalt 
do  our  singer  here,  our  Bernard,  the 
honor  of  sustaining  him  in  his  argument, 
and  thou,  William  of  Poitiers,  for  that 
thou  art  eldest  and  hast  the  most  of  cele 
brity,  shalt  stand  with  Raoul,  least  known 
and  the  youngest  in  years." 

She  lifted  her  hand,  and  the  musi 
cians  burst  into  a  jocund  strain  upon  their 
pipes.  Four  little  boys  clad  in  scarlet  and 

34 


gold  appeared  suddenly  in  the  midst  of 
the  guests,  and  began  flinging  a  shower 
of  apple-blossoms  among  them. 

The  Troubadours  stood  waiting,  Wil 
liam  confident,  Peter  somewhat  harrassed 
and  on  his  mettle  to  show  his  worth, 
Bernard  complacent  under  the  caressing 
of  Adelaide's  eyes,  Raoul  distrait,  his 
arms  folded  across  his  breast. 

There  came  upon  the  scene  at  this 
moment,  an  ancient  and  eldrich  dame, 
the  blind  Countess  of  Provence.  A  pair 
of  buxom  maidens,  hearty  as  cabbages, 
supported  her  on  each  side  ;  a  rugged 
dwarf  with  an  elfish  smile  carried  her 
train  of  brocade.  She  walked  slowly,  lift 
ing  her  dress  high  in  front  and  betraying 
a  pair  of  much  embroidered  slippers. 
About  her  neck  swung  a  huge  chain  of 
yellowing  pearls.  She  was  seated  with 
ceremony,  and  to  her  were  brought  the 
Troubadours,  and  the  theme  of  their  dis 
course  for  the  day  was  made  clear  to  her. 
She  listened  with  her  head  bent  forward 

35 


and  her  sightless  eyes  on  the  minstrels. 

Then,  since  she  was  a  great  patroness 
of  song,  though  blind  and  past  the  age  of 
dalliance,  she  spoke  to  each  of  them  of 
their  findings,  talked  of  the  sirvente,  the 
gest,  the  art  of  the  jongleurs,  the  better 
adaptation  of  the  tongue  of  the  south 
against  the  tongue  of  the  north  to  poetry, 
joy,  and  grace.  Having  become  accus 
tomed  to  their  voices  so  that  she  could 
discern  one  from  the  other,  she  begged 
that  she  might  touch  their  brows,  and  at 
that  moment  came  over  her  a  certain  rigi 
dity,  such  as  falls  upon  cataleptic  persons, 
so  that  she  sat,  corse-stiff,  with  vague,  un 
wavering  eyes,  and  spoke  as  one  speaks 
who  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  utters 
words  put  into  him  from  some  power 
without.  First  came  William  of  Poitiers, 
wary  and  disdainful. 

**Thou,  Master  of  Troubadours,"  she 
said,  "shalt  behold  thy  mastery  go  from 
thee,  for  even  beside  thee  is  one  destined 
to  be  greater  than  thou.  Thou  who  hast 

36 


fought  in  battles  shall  die  in  bed;  thou 
who  hast  chronicled  other  men's  lives 
shalt  have  none  at  hand  in  the  day  of  thy 
death  to  mark  the  manner  of  thy  going. 
Thou  who  hast  scoffed  shalt  one  day  re 
pent,  and  the  fairest  song  of  thy  making 
shalt  be  the  song  of  repentance." 

William  moved  from  beneath  that 
mystic  hand  with  aversion. 

"A  song  of  repentance  !  "  he  sneered, 
and  cast  a  glance  of  midday  love  full  on 
Blanchefleur. 

Next  knelt  Peter  of  Auvergne,  grin 
ning  foolishly. 

"And  thou  shalt  be  beaten  down  in 
better  men's  quarrels  as  a  cricket  of  the 
fields,  piping  at  the  moon,  is  drenched  in 
bitter  rain.  Yet  because  of  the  sweetness 
of  the  piping,  men  shall  long  remember 
thee." 

Peter,  chidingly  grateful,  lifted  the 
hem  of  the  old  autocrat's  robe  to  his  sen 
sual  lips.  A  poet's  pride  shone  in  his  eyes. 

Next  came  Raoul  de  Coucy,  respectful 

37 


to  the  ancient  dame. 

"And  thou,  poor  de  Coucy,  landless, 
the  innocent  shame  of  thy  family,  shalt 
find  the  poet's  joy  the  only  pay  for  thy  ex 
penditures.  Thou,  half  lover,  half  poet, 
tormenting  thyself  secretly  even  now 
with  penitential  garments,  thou  who 
standest  in  the  court  of  folly,  shalt  keep 
thy  feet  in  the  mud  of  earth  and  thine 
eyes  on  the  stars  of  heaven.  And  into  thy 
heart  this  day  shall  come  a  new  joy  and  a 
fresh  grief,  for  this  is  the  day  of  thy  des 
tiny.  And  the  time  shalt  come  when  thou 
afar,  shalt  write  a  threnody  for  her  whom 
thou  shalt  love,  she  being  dead."  A  chill 
wind  seemed  to  strike  her  shrivelledbody, 
and  she  shivered,  then  spoke  again.  "And 
thou  shalt  perish  in  a  mad  hour,  amongst 
many  men,  dying  like  thyself,  outside  the 
walls  of  a  beleaguered  city,  and  in  that 
dying  think  on  one  thou  seest  first  today." 

Raoul,  believing,  pale,  his  mystic  eyes 
on  those  of  the  prophetess,  lifted  her  hand 
to  his  lips  —  as  being  of  her  class,  though 

38 


ragged  and  a  wanderer,  he  had  the  grace 
to  do. 

Then  moved  he  apart  and  stood  gazing 
at  the  sad  face  of  Adelaide  as  one  stricken 
with  a  mortal  love. 

Last  came  Bernard  of  Ventadorn,  non 
chalant  and  affectionate  —  for  had  he  not 
known  the  old  prophetess  since  his  baby 
hood  ? 

"And  thou,  Bernard,"  she  said:  "thou, 
ardent  yet  changeful,  a  perfumed  wind 
blowing  now  here,  now  there,  a  gorgeous 
butterfly  feasting  on  the  flowers  of  Venta 
dorn,  art  set  aside  for  immortality.  While 
men  live  on  earth  they  shall  sing  thy  songs 
when  they  are  love-stricken.  Thou  shalt 
stir  the  blood  of  the  sluggish,  fan  the  fire 
of  the  glowing  into  flame.  By  moonlight 
and  by  sunlight,  in  meeting  and  in  part 
ing,  lovers  shall  remember  thee.  But 
Bernard,  the  flowers  that  tempt  thee  to 
day  shall  hold  no  sweet  for  thee  to-mor 
row.  Therefore  sing  on,  and  let  us  hear 
thy  voice,  that  in  less  lyric  hours  we  may 

39 


cherish  memories  of  thy  tunefulness." 

The  rigidity  slipped  from  her  as  it  had 
been  a  drenched  garment.  She  flushed 
slowly  with  the  pale  glow  of  age,  and 
moved  her  hands  to  play  with  that  great 
rope  of  yellowing  pearls. 

"The  argument!  the  argument!"  cried 
all  the  people,  and  Adelaide,  starting  from 
a  reverie,  gave  signal  that  the  debate  was 
to  begin. 

The  day  glowed  on  to  its  perfect  hour. 
On  the  flowery  slopes  the  pale  gold  sun 
light  brooded.  The  amorous  birds  soli 
cited  each  other  with  melting  songs. 

Bernard  of  Ventadorn  sang  to  his  mis 
tress,  but  with  careless  lips.  She,  out  of 
deep  eyes,  regarded  him  as  the  astronomer 
regards  the  heavens,  beholding  mysteries. 
And  Raoul  de  Coucy,  in  his  rags,  made  a 
new  song  of  delicate  melancholy: 


40 


"I  have  learned  how  love  can  wound, 
Grievously  his  dart  I  feel, 
But  how  sweetly  he  can  heal, 
That  I  never  yet  have  found. 

"The  physician  well  I  know 
Who  alone  can  cure  my  pain, 
But  to  me  what  is  the  gain, 
If  my  wounds  I  dare  not  show  ?  " 


TABLEAU  II. 
'The  Knight. 

EBLE  III,  Viscount  of  Ventadorn, 
sat  in  his  hall  on  a  certain  day.  Be 
hind  his  chair  of  carved  wood  hung 
a  tapestry  depicting  a  boar  hunt,  and  on 
the  dais  beneath  his  feet  was  the  skin  of 
leopards  sewn  in  a  mottled  carpet.  On  his 
finger  shone  the  signet  ring;  and  at  his 
elbow  sate  his  clerk.  Down  each  side  of 
the  grim  hall,  staves  in  hand  and  knives  at 
belt,  stood  his  stout  men-at-arms,  and  by 
the  dais,  splendid  in  his  trappings,  was  his 
Seneschal. 

Long  and  pale  was  the  face  of  Venta 
dorn,  and  the  grey  beard  was  scant.  Flo 
rentine  velvet,  black  as  the  Shades, 
clothed  the  tall  form,  and  a  chain  of  Ven 
etian  gold  was  hung  about  his  neck. 

To  him  came  certain  persons  crying 
judgment  —  a  woman  who  had  been 
beaten  by  her  husband;  a  man  who  had 

43 


been  robbed  of  all  his  little  wealth;  a 
knight  who  had  been  deserted  by  a  wan 
ton  wife. 

To  the  woman  who  had  been  chastised 
Ventadorn  gave  laughing  scorn.  "A  beat 
ing  ?"  he  roared !  "  I  beat  my  first  wife 
heartily  and  rejoice  to  remember  it.  Get 
home  to  thy  master  and  do  his  bidding, 
and  thank  the  good  God  that  thou  hast  a 
husband  who  hath  health  to  use  a  stick 
on  thee." 

The  woman  went  weeping,  but  at  the 
door  she  turned. 

"I  never  gave  my  husband  the  cause  to 
beat  me  that  thy  Lady  Adelaide  give 
thee,"  she  whispered.  Ventadorn  heard 
—  yet  feigned  not  to  hear,  and  there  was 
brought  before  him  the  keeper  of  for 
ests  who  had  been  robbed  of  his  savings. 

"How  earnest  thou  by  savings  ?  "  he 
sneered. 

"By  going  hungry,  my  lord,  when 
others  gorged;  by  going  cold  when  others 
were  clad;  by  sitting  in  darkness  when 

44 


others  had  light  and  fire." 

"And  why  didst  them  do  this  thing  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  a  daughter  now  at  the 
Convent  of  Mary,  whom  I  would  dower, 
for  she  is  all  I  have,  my  lord,  and  a  good 
girl,  and  I  desire  for  her  a  husband." 

"And  who  robbed  thee  ?  " 

"My  lord,  I  hold  it  to  be  the  Captain 
of  thy  knights,  who  spoke  to  me  the  other 
day  telling  me  my  Lord  of  Toulouse  re 
quired  a  tribute  from  vassal  and  freeman 
for  his  second  expedition  to  the  Holy 
Land." 

"And  gavest  thou  the  tribute  ?  ' 

"My  lord,  have  mercy!  I  had  only  my 
little  savings,  to  dower  my  child!  " 

"Their  action  hath  my  sanction,  by  His 
Wounds!  "  swore  the  Viscount.  "What, 
shall  Christian  hounds  grudge  a  pittance, 
while  the  Sepulchre  of  our  Lord  lies  de 
filed  in  pagan  hands  ?  Shall  thy  betters 
suffer  in  saracen  prisons,  die  in  the  snows 
of  Alpine  passes,  faint  on  the  scorching 
plains,  rot  on  fever-cursed  ships  or  perish 

45 


before  the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  while  thy 
baggage  of  a  daughter  is  kept  in  luxury  ?  " 

The  man  cringed  —  nay  crawled  — 
then  at  the  door  stood  erect  and  flamed 
wrath  from  his  spiteful  eyes.  A  hound, 
much  noted  for  its  ferocity,  and  sent  from 
Germany  to  Provence,  caught  the  con 
tagion  of  the  man's  anger  and  bit  at  his 
leg.  The  man  seized  this  vent  for  his  rage 
lightning-quick  —  drew  a  knife,  severed 
the  brute's  throat,  and  stood  waiting  with 
a  certain  foolish  exultation  in  his  eyes. 

"Bind  that  man,"  commanded  Venta- 
dorn.  "Teach  him  the  smell  of  a  dun 
geon.  He  hath  had  too  much  fresh  air!  ' 

To  the  husband  who  came  complain 
ing  that  his  wife  had  left  him  in  wanton 
ness,  Ventadorn  gave  greeting. 

"Bring  wine,"  he  called,  and  it  being 
brought,  he  filled  two  vessels. 

"Let  us  drink,"  he  said.  And  when 
they  had  finished  he  asked: 

"Friend,  dost  thou  like  this  wine?  " 

"It  is  excellent,  "  said  the  man  and  tip- 


ped  his  horn  again  lest  an  unquaffed  drop 
should  remain. 

"Since  thou  likest  it,"  said  the  Vis 
count,  "  I  shall  send  thee  a  cask.  When 
that  is  gone  let  me  know  and  I  will  send 
thee  more.  It  is  better  than  many  wives." 

The  man  looked  straight  in  the  eyes  of 
Ventadorn,  and  understood. 

"  He  knows, "  thought  the  man.  "He 
understands.  I  was  indeed  foolish  to 
come.  These  are  affairs  to  which  a  man 
ought  to  attend  himself."  And  he  went 
home  to  devise  how  he  should  slay  his 
rival. 

Then  Ventadorn  sent  away  his  clerk, 
and  dismissed  his  men-at-arms,  and  to  his 
Seneschal  he  said: 

"Bring  the  Troubadour!  " 

So  there  appeared  before  him  presently 
Bernard  the  Troubadour,  his  arms  bound, 
his  garments  and  his  flesh  nasty  with  the 
filth  of  a  dungeon. 

"Cut  his  bonds,"  said  Ventadorn.  And 
they  were  cut. 

47 


"Now  leave  us,"  said  the  Lord  to  the 
Seneschal,  and  they  were  left. 

Ventadorn  came  down  out  of  his  high 
seat  and  stood  before  the  minstrel. 

"Bernard  of  Ventadorn,"  said  he, 
"thou  art  a  knave!  " 

The  Troubadour  drew  his  breath  in 
through  his  teeth  with  a  sharp  sound  and 
ventured  nothing. 

"Bernard,  son  of  my  baker,  my  some 
time  pot-boy,  this  is  the  hour  of  our  reck 
oning!  " 

"  My  Lord,  "  retorted  he,  "As  thou 
sayest!  " 

"  Bernard,  did  I  not  because  of  thy 
genius  lift  thee  up  to  a  high  place,  cause 
my  chaplain  to  teach  thee,  make  thy  glory 
a  part  of  the  glory  of  the  house  ?  " 

Bernard  smiled. 

"If  thou  choose  to  put  it  so,  my  Lord, 
it  is  so." 

The  Viscount  came  nearer  to  the  min 
strel.  His  old  eyes  narrowed,  and  a  cruel 
smile  flickered  around  his  thin  lips. 


"Bernard, "  said  he,  "dost  know  a  tree 
out  yonder  in  the  orchard  which  beareth 
red  blossoms,  but  never  reacheth  fruit  ?  " 

"I  know  such  a  tree,"  said  the  Trou 
badour. 

"It  is  called  the  Judas  tree,  Bernard." 

"  Even  so,  my  lord.  " 

"On  it  hanged  one  who  betrayed  his 
Master. " 

The  Troubadour's  nostrils  quivered 
like  those  of  a  frightened  horse;  there  was 
a  curious  twitching  about  the  loose  flesh 
on  his  brow;  blotches  of  red  appeared  on 
his  face  and  disappeared  as  sudden  as  they 
came. 

"Wert  thou  of  fitting  birth,  Bernard,  I 
should  fight  thee,  and  one  of  us  would 
die. " 

The  Troubadour's  knees  were  giving 
a  little.  He  was,  after  all,  the  son  of  a 
baker.  Courage  was  not  in  his  traditions. 

"Or  were  I  as  some,  I  should  hang  thee 
like  an  over-ripe  apple  from  the  limb  of 
that  same  fruitless  tree  —  the  second  of 

49 


thy  kind  to  find  justice  on  it.  This,  in 
deed,  did  I  debate  with  myself.  Yet,  be- 
causeit  would  bring  disagreeable  thoughts 
to  my  mind,  and  because  I  know  myself 
punished  in  theefor  my  folly  in  elevating 
one  of  thy  kind  to  honor,  I  do  no  more 
than  send  thee forth.  Get  thee gone,  Ber 
nard,  traitor  and  troubadour,  and  get  thee 
far!  A  horse  shall  be  given  thee —  my 
last  gift  of  many.  Let  me  see  thee  never 
more!  " 

He  struck  upon  the  floor  with  his  staff, 
and  there  appeared  the  men-at-arms  and 
bore  the  Troubadour  a  way.  Then  came  a 
little  later  pale  Adelaide  creeping  along 
the  hall,  and  found  the  old  man  huddled 
in  a  seat,  his  eyes  sunken,  his  cheeks  color 
less. 

"My  lord"  —  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

He  leaped  up  and  pointed  an  accusing 
finger  at  her.  She  smiled  and  held  up  her 
head,  shaming  him  with  clear  gaze,  beat 
ing  down  his  scorn  with  her  deeper  scorn. 
Then,  wavering,  he  all  but  fell,  and  she, 

5° 


calling  others  to  his  assistance,  saw 
him  borne  away.  She  stood  for  a  time, 
like  a  woman  of  stone  in  the  midst  of  the 
vast,  dim  hall.  Perhaps  she  reviewed  all 
that  has  passed  there.  She  roused  herself 
and  looked  around.  Gaunt  shadows 
seemed  to  move  in  the  recesses.  The  arras 
swayed  slowly.  From  the  court  came  the 
sound  of  hoofs.  Some  one  was  departing 
in  haste.  Adelaide  leaned  against  a  pillar 
heavily,  her  hands  clasped  together  and 
hanging  down  before  her. 

The  hoofs  clanged  loud  on  the  stone, 
grew  faint,  then  fainter,  grew  ghostly, 
ceased ! 

Another  sound  arose.  It  was  some  one 
singing  in  a  far  chamber.  Unto  her  sick 
soul  floated  in  the  words: 


UO  sweet,  my  soul,  whate'er  they  say, 
There  is  no  grief  like  ours  to-day, 
When  friend  from  friend  is  rent  away. 
Alas,  I  know  too  well,"  said  he, 
"How  brief  one  happy  night  may  be. 

Ah  ha! 

I  hear  the  sentry's  call  afar; 
Up  and  away ! 
Behold  the  day 
Comes  following  the  day-star." 


TABLEAU  III. 
The  Castle. 

THE  springhad  gone — thatspring 
and  others.  Now,  bleakly,  out  of 
the  North,  blew  the  rain-smitten 
wind.  It  beat  on  Adelaide's  tower  with 
ghostly  importunity.  It  whispered  secrets 
of  the  castle  —  old  crimes  committed  in 
those  ancient  rooms  —  old  joys,  dead  as 
the  sorrows.  Whispered  the  secrets  ? 
Nay,  it  shrieked  them  in  a  wierd  anti- 
phony  —  secrets  of  the  dungeons,  of  the 
chambers,  of  the  long,  dark,  dank  pas 
sages,  of  the  battlements,  of  the  sheer 
escarpment  —  the  Rhone  rolled  beneath 
—  of  the  towers,  of  the  long  refectory,  of 
the  rooms  where  the  servants  cluttered, 
the  rooms  where  the  knights  drank  to 
soddenness;  the  rooms  where  babes  were 
born,  the  rooms  where  women  died! 

There  was  one  dying  there  now.   It 
was  Adelaide,  sometime  Queen  of  the 

53 


Court  of  Love,  bride  of  the  Viscount  of 
Ventadorn,  beloved  of  the  sweetest  of  all 
singers,  Bernard. 

The  room  was  heated  bv  a  brazier, 

j 

which  glowed  evilly  in  the  dusk;  and 
wrapped  like  a  nun  in  sad  garments,  lay 
Adelaide.  A  missal  curiously  wrought 
was  by  her  side,  and  the  flambeau  caught 
in  its  socket  above  her  couch  gave  her 
light  for  reading.  At  the  foot  of  her  cot, 
raised  delicately  on  a  quivering  bar  was  a 
Crucifix,  very  featly  fashioned.  Desiree 
Autafort  and  Blanchefleur  Vaquerias  sat 
apart  from  each  other  there  in  the  gloom 
ing  chamber,  and  wrapped  their  young 
bodies  close  in  garments  of  heavy  silk. 
And  near  the  couch  of  Adelaide  was  the 
old  Countess  of  Provence.  A  tender  smile 
sat  on  her  face,  and  there  was  a  look  of 
courage  about  her  mouth  and  her  brow. 
"I  remember  when  I  came  to  Venta 
dorn,  "  said  Adelaide,  with  gentle  remin 
iscence.  "The  castle  looked  most  grim. 
It  was  such  a  different  matter  from  our 

54 


chateau.  There  we  were  always  gay. 
When  first  I  saw  the  implacability  of  this 
Hold,  I  shuddered,  if  thou  wilt  believe 
me,  dear  Countess.  I  should  have  des 
paired  I  think,  if  I  had  not  presently  been 
led  past  all  those  strange,  grand,  dark 
rooms  to  the  kindlier  side  of  the  castle. 
There,  as  thou  knowest,  it  smiled  upon 
the  long  Plaisance,  the  avenue  of  clipped 
limes,  the  bewitching  Lake  of  Lilies, 
made  for  a  Countess  of  Ventadorn  long 
since  dead. " 

She  ceased  a  little,  and  the  wind  hush 
ing,  merely  crooned  like  a  sad  mother. 

"Then  I  came  to  love  the  fruitful  mea 
dows,  where  apples  and  grapes  throve.  I 
loved  the  olive  groves,  the  presses  for  the 
oil  and  wine.  I  loved  the  great  flocks,  the 
herds,  the  horses.  I  loved  to  watch  the 
weavers  and  the  spinners;  the  tilling  of 
the  ground  —  all  the  good  business  of  the 
people.  I  am  as  curious  as  a  little  child, 
dear  Countess.  Not  many  know  all  the 
ways  of  this  old  castle.  But  I  do;  I  know 

55 


them  all.  I  could  teach  Ventadorn  fifty 
secrets  of  his  house,  were  he  inclined  to 
know  them.  There's  not  a  room  of  all 
this  wandering,  terrible  place,  not  a  dun 
geon,  not  a  cellar,  not  a  passage-way  but 
it  hath  been  traversed  by  me.  It  passed  the 
time,  thou  seest.  It  passed  the  time.  " 

A  servant  entered  with  a  steaming 
pitcher,  and  Desiree  lifted  the  head  of 
Adelaide  and  gave  her  the  mulled  wine. 

"  Drink  ye  too,  my  dear  ones, "  smiled 
Adelaide.  "Let  us  be  as  merry  as  we 
can.  I  have  always  been  debonnaire,  I 
hope.  When  I  was  little  and  could  not 
guess  what  life  might  lie  before  me,  I  said 
to  myself  I  should  be  debonnaire.  It  is  a 
woman's  form  of  courage  —  eh,  my  little 
ones  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes, ' '  assented  Desiree  and  Blan- 
chefleur. 

"And  women  have  need  of  such  cour 
age,  have  they  not,  dear  Countess  ?  Fear 
and  idleness  —  these  are  the  things  they 
must  avoid.  My  mother  taught  me  to 

56 


keep  myself  employed.  She  said  business 
was  balm  for  world  's-woe.  She  taught 
me  how  to  distill  perfumes  and  lotions 
and  herbs  and  flowers;  how  to  make  music 
on  the  instruments;  how  to  embroider 
and  to  spin;  how  to  dance  and  how  to 
dream. 

"  *  Women  have  need  of  all  these  things 
to  comfort  them,  *  she  said.  '  Also  let 
them  study  the  stars,  the  earth,  the  trees, 
animals,  what  poets  have  writ,  what  the 
wise  have  said.  Whatever  sorrow  the 
heart  hath  —  and  women  may  not  escape 
it  —  in  these  things  lies  compensation. ' 
So  my  mother  said,  and  she  thought  much 
alone,  and  had  learned  wisdom.  " 

The  blind  old  Countess  nodded  but  did 
not  speak. 

"Ah,  how  all  that  she  had  taught  me 
came  back  to  me  the  day  of  my  betrothal ! 
My  father  told  me  I  was  sought  by  Ven- 
tadorn.  *  He  is  old, '  whispered  my  nurse. 
My  mother  cried  mercy  for  me  —  but  of 
what  avail  are  the  words  of  a  woman  ? 

57 


That  night  we  wept  in  each  other's  arms, 
and  I  restedon  her  breast  like  a  little  child. 
Then  at  dawn  she  heartened  me.  'Do  as 
they  bid  —  these  men, '  she  said.  'Thou 
art  beautiful  and  court  will  be  paid  thee, 
and  after  a  fashion  thoushalt  have  thy  re 
venge.  But  keep  thou  thy  soul  to  thyself. 
Thou  art  lettered  and  hast  delight  in  fan 
tasy,  and  this  likewise  will  give  thee  a 
certain  power.  And  hark  you  daughter, 
in  discourse  reveal  thy  wit,  but  not  thy 
heart;  for,  secretly  if  not  openly,  the  men 
have  contempt  for  us.  They  count  us 
adorable,  perhaps;  miraculous  like  the 
Virgin,  but  not  like  them,  not  their  equals. 
They  sell  us,  buy  us,  beat  us,  kill  us  as  they 
please.  No  one  gainsays  them.  We  are 
their  wives.  We  belong  to  them.  There 
fore  I  say  keep  thy  soul  free,  and  thy 
sufferings  will  be  less. '  So  I  went  to  my 
marriage.  I  rode  here  in  splendor.  I  found 
myself  lady  of  this  vast  estate.  B  ut  I  kne  w 
not  in  this  splendor  that  I  should  find 
sustenance  for  my  soul.  " 

58 


"Thou  art  talking  too  much,  dearest 
lady,"  said  Blanchefleur.  "Let  Desire'e 
sing  to  thee. " 

So  Desiree  sang  softly,  and  the  song  of 
her  singing  was  the  penitential  lay  writ 
by  William  of  Poitiers: 

"My  life  I  gave  to  joy  and  might, 
But  now  to  both  I  say  good-night. 
To  Him  I  go,  for  my  release, 
Who  gives  to  every  sinner  peace. 

"Charming  and  gay  the  mien  I  bore, 
The  Lord  now  wills  it  so  no  more; 
The  weight  I  can  no  longer  bear, 
I  have  approached  the  end  so  near. 

"I  leave  all  things  most  dear  to  me, 
All  worldly  pride  and  chivalry; 
Whate'er  God  wills,  that  I  embrace, 
And  pray  that  he  will  show  me  grace." 

Minor  and  haunting  was  the  strain, 
and  when  it  had  ceased,  still  her  wander 
ing  fingers  strayed  among  the  mournful 
strings,  and  the  wind,  teachable,  elfish, 
caught  the  strain  and  echoed  it,  till  faint, 
mocking,  melodious  cries  sounded  all 
about  the  tower. 

"I  remember  well  the  day  that  thou 

59 


foretoldst  to  William  the  Sinner,  dear 
Countess,  that  he  should  sing  this  peni 
tential  chant.  It  was  the  last  perfect  day 
of  our  Court  of  Love — the  golden,  cloud 
less  day.  After  that,  I  remember  me,  the 
lightness  was  gone. " 

The  old  Countess  fingered  her  great 
yellow  pearls  and  answered  not  a  word. 

"Thou  thoughtst  I  loved  Bernard," 
cried  Adelaide,  with  sudden,  affectionate 
reproach.  "Doth  one  love  a  bird  in  the 
tree  ?  Doth  one  love  a  little  sun-flushed 
cloud  in  the  sky  ?  Yet  for  his  melody  I 
loved  him;  for  his  fairness  I  had  joy  of 
him.  Starving,  one  takes  whatever  morsel 
offers,  and  if  there  be  a  dainty  at  hand ! 
Well,  well,  thou  comprehendst!  You  are 
all  women.  Now  he  is  gone  —  long  since. 
The  other  day  there  came  to  my  hearing 
a  song  he  writ  in  honor  of  Eleanor  the 
Beautiful.  Lend  me  thy  lyre,  Desiree, 
and  let  me  see  if  I  may  sing  once  more.  " 

They  propped  her  up  and  gave  her  the 
little  golden  instrument,  and  with  a  pas- 
60 


sion  of  pathos  sh«  sang  the  song  which 
her  sometime  lover  had  made  to  a  woman 
fairer  than  herself: 

"When  I  behold  on  eager  wing 
The  skylark  soaring  to  the  sun, 
Till  e'en  with  rapture  faltering 
He  sinks  in  glad  oblivion, 
Alas,  how  fain  to  seek  were  I 
The  same  ecstatic  fate  of  fire! 
Yea,  of  a  truth  I  know  not  why 
My  heart  melts  not  with  its  desire. 

"Methought  that  I  knew  everything 
Oflove.  Alas,  my  lore  was  none! 
For  helpless  now  my  praise  I  bring 
To  one  who  still  that  praise  doth  shun, 
One  who  hath  robbed  me  utterly 
Of  soul,  of  self,  of  life  entire, 
So  that  my  heart  can  only  cry 
For  that  it  ever  shall  require. 

"For  ne'er  have  1  of  self  been  king, 
Since  that  first  hour,  so  long  agone, 
When  to  thine  eyes  bewildering, 
As  to  a  mirror,  I  was  drawn. 
Then  let  me  gaze  until  I  die; 
So  doth  my  soul  of  sighing  tire, 
As  in  the  fount,  in  days  gone  by, 
The  fair  Narcissus  did  expire. " 

They  took  the  instrument  from  her, 
and  laid  her  back  among  the  pillows. 
61 


"It  is  a  fairer  song  than  ever  he  sang  to 
me, "  she  said  and  smiled. 

And  now  the  old  blind  Countess  was 
mumbling  and  muttering;  and  listening 
the  women  caught  shadows  of  sentences, 
vague  shapes  of  ideas,  as  one  beholds  mov 
ing  phantoms,  half-formed,  in  the  beryl 
stone.  Mumbling  with  the  wind  the 
same  word  over  and  over,  muttering  with 
the  rain  that  washed  the  pane, they  caught 
her  phrases  only  in  part. 

"World's  woe,"  she  said,  "world's 
woe!  I  am  blind  now,  but  in  my  day  I 
have  seen  what  I  have  seen.  The  monks 
in  their  cells,  who  call  women  evil;  the 
knights  and  lords,  who  think  them  base; 
the  poets,  talking  foolishly  to  them;  — 
what  do  any  of  these  know  ?  It  is  the 
women  who  learn  —  for  Sorrow  is  their 
teacher.  It  is  the  women  who  know  — 
for  it  is  Pain  who  instrufteth  them.  The 
men  have  sung  to  us,  and  fought  for  us, 
they  have  decked  us  out  in  jewels,  they 
have  made  a  brave  showing  for  us  in  our 
62 


bridal  processions,  and  slain  those  who 
desired  us  unlawfully.  But  have  they 
spoken  to  us  with  frank  speech  ?  Have 
they  known  the  pain  we  bore;  the  sorrow 
we  pressed  to  our  bosoms;  the  longing 
that  teased  us,  and  would  not  let  us  rest 
—  the  longing  for  Light  ?  Oh,  it  is  not  I 
who  am  blind  —  I,  who  have  no  eyes. 
They  are  blind,  who  having  eyes,  can  not 
behold.  For  surely  in  the  East  the  Dawn 
breaks!  Amber  and  white  and  silver 
like  seraphim  wings !  " 

And  Adelaide,  understanding  the  sym 
bol,  murmured:  "The  Dawn  breaks !  " 

But  those  watching  through  the  bitter 
night  saw  no  such  dawn.  Only  after  a 
time,  over  the  darkling  hills,  came  a  wan 
light  and  spread  till  all  the  earth  was 
ghost-pale  with  the  glow  of  it.  The  wind 
sank.  The  rain  ceased.  The  noises  of  the 
castle  crept  up  the  stair.  Desiree  rested 
her  cheek  on  her  fair  arm  and  slept. 
Blanchefleur  told  her  beads,  for  she  knew 
a  soul  was  passing.  And  the  old  Countess 

63 


of  Provence  muttered  as  she  drowsed: 
"The  Sorrow  of  Women!  Heart's  woe! 
Heart's  woe!  " 

And  now  behold,  here  is  the  lament 
written  by  Raoul  de  Coucy,  saddest  of  his 
house,  wanderer,  beggar,  Troubadour,  he 
of  the  true  heart,  who,  loving  utterly, 
spoke  nothing  of  his  love;  and  being  be 
reft,  sang  this  song: 

"Of  all  the  wretched  I  am  he  who  bears 
Most  grevious  pain  and  anguish  of  the  mind. 
I  long  to  die,  and  I  would  deem  him  kind 
Who  slew  me,  for  my  spirit  so  despairs: 
My  life  is  naught  but  misery  and  dread 
Since  Lady  Adelaide,  alas !  is  dead: 
I  suffer  from  the  injury  and  dole. 
O  traitorous  Death!  you  can  most  truly  say, 
A  better  in  the  world  you  could  not  slay. 

"Ah,  it  had  been  a  blessed  thing 
If  God  had  willed  that  I  should  first  have  died. 
Wretched,  alas!  I  would  not  long  abide, 
Now  she  is  gone.  Pardon  her,  Jesus,  King, 
Almighty  God  of  justice  and  of  truth; 
Save  her,  O  Christ,  by  thy  exceeding  ruth! 
St.  Peter  and  St.  John  receive  her  soul! 
For  in  it  dwell  all  virtues  men  can  see, 
And  from  all  trace  of  evil  it  is  free. 

"We  may  be  sure  the  happy  angels  raise 


A  song  of  joy  on  knowing  she  is  deid, 
For  I  have  heard,  and  in  the  books  't  is  read 
'Godpraises  one  whom  all  the  people  praise.' 
Whence  I  am  sure  she  's  in  the  palace  fair, 
Amongst  the  lilies  and  the  roses,  where 
The  angels  praise  her  joyously  in  song. 
So  should,  indeed,  the  one  who  never  lies 
Seat  her  above  the  rest  in  Paradise. 

4 Ah,  since  my  Lady  Adelaide  has  died, 
What  ills  I  bear!   For  I  must  lay  aside 
All  joy,  and  say  to  song  my  last  good-bye. 
Sighing  and  weeping  henceforth  is  my  part, 
And  sad  complaint  and  anguish  of  the  heart." 


Here  endeth  "Castle,  Knight  and 
Troubadour,  "  as  written  by  Elia  W. 
Peattie;  the  frontispiece  was  drawn  by 
Harry  Everett  To wnsend;  and  the  whole 
made  into  this  book  and  sold  by  The  Blue 
Sky  Press,  at  4732  Kenwood  Avenue,  in 
Chicago.  Of  this  first  edition  there  were 
printed  one  hundred  and  seventy  -  five 
copies  on  paper  and  twenty-five  copies 
on  Japan  vellum,  this  being  number 


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